From the corner of her vision, Leticia noted Townsend glancing toward them again before returning to his tea. The man by the door lowered his paper briefly, revealing a neatly trimmed beard and the clean line of a collar. His eyes swept the room once before the paper lifted again.
Gabriel’s gaze followed hers for a moment, “Observation,” he said quietly. “It’s the most useful skill in any investigation. Look at Felix. What do you see?”
She tilted her head. “He’s having tea.”
“Yes. Where is he sitting?”
“In the back of the room.”
“How is he sitting?”
She cast him a sidelong glance, unsure what he wanted.
“Look again.”
Her gaze returned to Felix. He lifted his cup, met her eyes briefly, and nodded in greeting. She turned back to Gabriel. “He’s watching me.”
“And do you think anyone could come up behind him unnoticed?”
Her expression shifted as she considered. “No… his back’s to the wall.”
“Exactly.” He inclined his head, faint approval in his eyes. “Now the other gentleman.”
She glanced toward the man with the paper. “He’s looking at the people in the room.”
“And?”
She studied him a moment longer before her brow arched. “He’s sitting by the door. For a quick escape.”
Gabriel sat back, satisfied. “You learn quickly.”
The server returned with a plate of currant scones, their sugared tops catching the light. Gabriel broke one in half and passed her the portion with the most fruit.
“Thank you.” She took a bite, the soft crumb melting on her tongue. “You are quiet.”
“I was considering,” he said slowly, “whether our visit to the Historical Society accomplished what I hoped.”
“And did it?”
His mouth curved slightly. “It confirmed several things. Not all of them were in the exhibits.”
She lifted her cup again, watching him over the rim. “You are a man who enjoys keeping his conclusions to himself.”
“Until the moment is right,” he agreed.
She set her cup down and rested her hands on the edge of the table, not touching his. “If I tell you something without asking for aconclusion, will you promise not to give me one?”
“I can attempt moderation,” he said. “For the length of one pot of tea.”
“Acceptable.” She breathed in the citrus of her Earl Grey. “When Lady Westcott congratulated me in the receiving room, I felt… exposed. It was kind, and yet every eye turned at once. I do not enjoy being looked at as if I am a character in a story.”
“You are,” he said. “Only most people do not realize they have any say in the plot.”
That drew a quick laugh from her. “And you, Gabriel, always revise the ending.”
His eyes warmed, the change so slight she would have missed it months ago. “Only when the first draft is poor.”
“You are impossible,” she said, still smiling. “And infuriatingly calm.”
